Upon Waking
by Sleep-Not
Summary: Oh no! It's another sweet and fluffy fic by Sleep-Not! Beware! S+C Schuldig's sick with nasty dreams... What's Crawford to do? Drug him apparently.


Disclaimer: Nope, don't own 'em… but the Kreuz boys can own me any time they like…! (leer, leer) And the day I get money for this is the day Satan goes skating to work. 

Upon Waking

Sweat beads coldly on my forehead as I wake from a dream I suddenly can't remember except that it was unpleasant. I feel sick. I feel, in fact, as if I'm going to throw up and realise that I'm already stumbling to the bathroom.

This has been going on for years, for no reason that I can fathom, whether we're on a job or in between missions, I'll have a bout of nightmares that passes as suddenly as it came. From long practice, I hold my hair away from my face as I retch. I fucking hate throwing up on a practically empty stomach. I'm finished in about fifteen interminable minutes. I won't be sleeping again tonight so I brush my teeth and head out into the hall; I may as well check out what's on TV. As I step out from the bathroom a cool hand meets my forehead, feeling for fever, and I am handed a glass of water. 

"Are you ill, Schuldig?"   

Brad fucking Crawford, why did you have to be up tonight?

I don't answer him, but carry on to the living room, where I curl up on the couch and dig under the cushions for the remote. 

Crawford follows me in and sits down on the other end of the couch. He's looking at me, I know, but I don't feel like any kind of conversation at the moment and avoid his gaze. He sticks his hand down his side of the couch and hands me the remote. 

I sip the water he brought me and start channel surfing. We stay there like that for a good hour, me watching TV and Crawford watching me. 

Eventually I finish the water and put the glass down on the coffee table in front of us, I switch the TV off. He's not going to let this go, is he? I wish he would; the dreams upset me that I can't remember any of them; they make me feel weak. There's nothing I hate more than feeling weak unless it's appearing weak to other people. And the only people that really count are my teammates, especially our fearless fucking leader, Crawford. 

"Any more concern and I'll start thinking you really care, Crawford." I warn him lightly. 

"This isn't the first time this has happened, Schuldig," he replies, his face a mask of inscrutability.

Fuck, he's noticed. 

"So what?"

"Your state of health is important to Schwarz."

I chuckle, "I'm not sick, Crawford, this won't affect the efficiency of Schwarz."

"Fine, then you won't mind going back to sleep then." He stands up waits for me to follow him. 

The bastard knows, the bastard fucking knows I never go back to sleep after a night like this. I look up at him and don't budge from my position. 

"In my own time, but please don't let me stop you."

"Now, Schuldig."

Ooh! An order. I fucking hate him, well, the bastard can go screw himself; I'm not going back to sleep. I don't reply and I don't move.

He frowns, "What are you afraid of?"

I jump up then, incensed, "Nothing!" Did I say that too fast? It sounds like I'm lying. But how can I be afraid of the dreams when I can't fucking remember a fucking detail about them?

He doesn't say anything, why doesn't he say anything? Then he grabs me by my arm and drags me back to my bedroom. He lets go at the door and continues up the hall to his own room. I linger, waiting for him to leave so that I can go back to the TV but he stops at his door and glares at me until I huffily pull my door open and go in. Fine, the man's had his satisfaction, I slam the door loudly, and much good may it do him. 

If he thinks I'm falling asleep then I overestimated him. I flop on my bed and stare at the ceiling. It's white. Rolling over I stare at my wall, it's white too. I'm starting to sense a theme here. I really should get some posters, and some books now that I come to think of it, my room is extraordinarily bare, though not neat. There are clothes all over the place from where I've discarded them.

The only light is dull and from an orange streetlight outside that only barely lights the room thanks to my closed curtains, which are, I now notice, white. 

I stare at the window for a while and wake shivering. I should never have lain down on my bed. And oh god, I'm going to be sick again.

This time though, as my throat burns from retching, my vomit has taste. The bastard spiked my water with a slow-acting sleeping pill.

I hear someone placing a glass of water on the floor next to me and someone kneels down at my side and holds my hair for me and rubs my back until the nausea passes.

He hands me the glass once I'm done and wipes the pain tears gently from my face with his thumbs as I sip the soothing water.

"I hate you," I say softly, my throat complaining and my eyes shut, "why did you make me go to sleep?"

"I'm sorry, I had to know," he says. Brad Crawford _apologising_? Is the world coming to an end?

He's still rubbing my back, though it's no longer necessary, in warm calming circles. I finally open my eyes. What a sight we must make: one crumpled by the toilet, the other supporting and yet also the indirect cause.

He even manages to look a little guilty in his own inscrutable way. 

I stand and wander down the hall and he follows. I pause at my room, contemplating shutting the door in his face buts shudder lightly at the thought of sleep, and continue on to the living room. I curl up on the couch and he sits next to me. So here we are again. 

"I'm not ill, Brad, I just… occasionally, I have bad dreams, but a little lost sleep never hurt anybody." 

"They make you physically ill."

"They'll pass, they always do, and as they say, 'no rest for the wicked.'"

He looks a little sad, "are we so very evil, Schuldig?"

I have no answer for Crawford, are we so very evil, really? I don't know, and sometimes, I don't care. 

"You need your sleep, it's unhealthy for you to stay awake too long. It'll endanger our missions too." I give him a look and he pauses. "It's happened before during a mission?"

"I can handle it." It's his turn to give me a look. "What?"

"It was irresponsible of you not inform me of your difficulties so that I could work it into the mission parameter equations." Brad-stick-up-the-ass-Crawford has spoken.

I give him an insolent look.

"You endangered the mission!"

I give him another, even haughtier, insolent look.

"You could have been killed!"

"Oh be still my beating heart, he cares!"

"… Shut up, Schuldig, of course I care."

Now I'm surprised. 

"You're an important member of the team; Schwarz can't operate without even one of its members anymore; your well-being matters to all of us… without you we'd be… less." 

The thought 'I'd be less' is tagged onto what he last said, but unvoiced. My god, he really does care. It's such a temptation to delve into his mind right now, but I'm weak and Crawford's barriers are very strong.

"If you need to talk about this, do so; you need to rest, Schuldig."

"I… I don't remember what happens. I never do once I wake up, do you know how tormenting that is, Crawford?"

"Brad, and I can imagine."

"What?"

"Call me Brad, if you want to, you did before."

"I thought you didn't like it."

"It's late, you're tired, I'm tired, who cares?" Okay, so maybe he's not quite so tight assed as I thought. 

"Anyhow, I don't want to sleep, I'll just wait it out with a jumbo sized jug of coffee."

He snorts at the suggestion and runs his hands distractedly though his hair. 

"Well, if you're sure…"

I nod and he sighs as he gets up. 

"I'm going to bed then. Good luck, Schuldig."

"Goodnight, Brad!" I wave back at him.

He stops in the doorway and half turns with a small grin, "I'm going to regret letting you call me that, aren't I?" And then he is gone before I can reply.

Dawn is just a hint on the horizon when I fall into a light sleep. I struggle to wake myself but am too tired. But before I can move into a deeper state of sleep that allows for dreams, hands shake me awake and I'm looking into Crawford's eyes. He must have had a vision warning him I wouldn't be able to stay awake. Either that, or he's been up all night unobtrusively monitoring me. I think I prefer the former possibility; after all, Brad needs his rest too.

"Come to bed, Schuldig," he mumbles, and both half asleep, we move down the hallway, Brad leading the way.

I'm pushed down into cool sheets, and barely register the other weight settle in next me. It's a struggle to open my eyes but I do. Oh, we're in Brad's room. His curtains are patterned, and there are pictures on the wall I'm facing. Not a piece of clothing in sight though. There's no fighting sleep anymore, so I snuggle backward against his warm back and give in. 

I'm woken late morning when Brad moves and wakes up himself. Somehow, during the night, we've twisted round until I'm embraced comfortably in his arms, my own are wrapped round him too. 

"Mn. Good morning." He yawns lightly "Sleep well?"

I'm amazed at how… un-Crawford-like Crawford is being, I would have thought he'd be unhappy, to say the least, to find himself wrapped round another man. And then it hits me: I slept well. 

My silence wakes him up a bit more. "Schuldig? If you're going to throw up, for god's sake don't do it on me."

I laugh, what else can I do? Right now I feel so happy I could burst.

"I didn't dream, or well, I did, but not those dreams, not nightmares, I-"

My happiness needs an outlet, it's bubbling up out of me and I'm babbling, so I do something stupid. I lean up and kiss Crawford right on the lips. I'm a bit shocked at what I've done and duck my head down back to his chest where he can't see my face. But his breathing remains calm and all he does is reach up a hand and run it through my hair, brushing out any snags he encounters. I just kissed Brad Crawford, and now he's petting my head. The unreality of the whole thing hits me and I can't help but chuckle. Crawford, no, _Brad_ (it'll take a little while to get used to), joins me.  

I don't think I've ever been so happy.

I don't have bad dreams anymore, and I'm in Brad's bed to stay… and as long as he doesn't try to dope me with sleeping pills so he can get some (much needed!) rest, that suits me just fine. 

Who would have thought we were both such closet romantics?

End

Author's note:

Oh dear, I always give my incredibly light n' fluffy fics really serious titles, for shame! 

I had a hell of a time with that ending, and I can't seem to be able to write Schuldig or Crawford without going madly OOC, please, please forgive me… I am not worthy! I have dishonoured the family name! I must commit ritual seppuku immediately! God bless MegaTokyo, I bet Crawford reads it when he's supposed to be working. 

Oh yes, and I forgot to mention in my other fic, By Name, I made a reference to an excellent comic strip called Boy Meets Boy, recognition yo! 


End file.
